


made of fire and dreams

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Anyways, M/M, i really wish i could've written a better thing for you, ridiculous cutes being ridiculously in love, so sorry omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:02:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hate gingerbread latte, you know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	made of fire and dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harborshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/gifts).



It’s Monday morning and Grantaire would absolutely love to drown himself this exact moment. Usually, he has no problems talking to his customers, maybe even throwing in a flirty wink or a suggestive smile if said customer is exceptionally good looking – which does happen once in a while – but this boy (and he is, Grantaire thinks, merely a boy, doesn’t look a day older than seventeen) has managed to reduce him to a stuttering mess in a matter of _seconds_. And what frustrates Grantaire the most is that it has taken nothing more than a smile.

Okay, maybe the boy’s absolutely gorgeous hair and _sinful_ cheekbones have played a small part, too. But it’s mostly the smile.

Grantaire sets the gingerbread-latte-with-an-extra-shot-espresso down on the counter; the boy takes it, their hands brush for a brief second. The boy looks up at him, their eyes lock for half a moment and then he’s gone. Just like that.

It takes Grantaire two hours to get back to his normal working routine. Two hours in which he manages to get three orders wrong and that has _never_ happened before, two hours in which the memory of a faint smile refuses to leave his mind.

Grantaire idly wonders what colour _his_ eyes might be as he prepares the last order of his shift, his arms aching and his eyes threatening to fall shut at any given moment.

Maybe they are green. Green would fit, especially combined with that adorable red scarf the boy was wearing.

Maybe they are blue. Yes. Blue is a good colour, Grantaire decides, blue is exactly the colour the eyes of someone like the boy – he has him dubbed Apollo in his mind now, for lack of an actual name – would have.

Éponine chooses that moment to saunter past him. “Still hung up on that boy from earlier?” she chirps, just laughing when Grantaire throws a scowl at her and mutters, “Of course not.”

It’s useless anyways, Grantaire decides as he walks home to his shitty one-room apartment (but what can you do, the rent in Paris is insane). He was just a customer – okay, a particularly pretty customer, but that doesn’t matter – and chances are very slim that they’ll even see each other again. Close to zero, actually. So why is he even still thinking about this?

_

The next day, Grantaire shows up at eight at the coffee shop he works at, as usual. His shift begins at seven thirty, also as usual, and to add to the number of things that go as usual, Éponine threatens to fire him if he arrives late one more time (which she would never actually do, though).

As he mindlessly puts on his apron and starts to serve the first customers, he catches himself glancing to the door more often than usual, hoping for the boy – Apollo – to return.

And then it’s ten AM and nothing has happened so far and Grantaire is beginning to lose hope (it would’ve been too good to be true, really) and then the door opens, letting in a whoosh of cold air and two young men. It takes Grantaire less than a second to recognize _him. He_ is talking excitedly to the man besides him, who’s wearing glasses and looks – to Grantaire – far too intellectual.

Both of the men walk up to him now and his breath definitely doesn’t go any faster as first the intellectual one, then Apollo himself orders. His drink is the same as the day before and Grantaire wonders whether his visit will be a regular thing now.

He hopes so.

Grantaire glances at Apollo’s eyes and suddenly finds himself unable to look away. They’re blue alright, a crystal clear ice blue that is, so he senses, capable of unbearable coldness as well as incredible warmth—and then Apollo clears his throat (oh God he was staring, why was he staring), and Grantaire blushes, mutters a quick “sorry” and goes to make the requested drinks.

As he turns around to do so, he hears Apollo laugh, and it’s a melody in itself, probably the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard (a laugh to launch a thousand ships, a laugh to brighten a day and chase dark clouds away, a laugh to, essentially, better the world, and Grantaire wants to paint this sound in all its glory) and he definitely _does not get an inappropriate erection no no he does not at all_. Neither does he feel a sharp pang of jealousy because the other man, the intellectual looking one, can make him laugh like that.

Grantaire hands Apollo the drink, their hands brush again, Grantaire feels a spark, an actual spark, jolting down his spine and then he’s gone (the other one has already received his drink from the barista that’s helping Grantaire out today).

__

It turns into somewhat of a ritual. Every day at ten a.m. sharp, Apollo (Grantaire still doesn’t know his name) turns up, sometimes with a friend in tow, orders a gingerbread latte with an extra shot of espresso, their eyes lock, they exchange a small smile (on some days. On others, Apollo just comes rushing in and doesn’t even have time for more than ordering and almost running out as soon as he has the cup of coffee in his hand.) and then Grantaire is left to sigh after the beautiful, beautiful boy – no, Greek god.

__

One day, Éponine decides it’s enough; she can’t stand Grantaire moping after this boy anymore and it’s really about time the dude’s getting laid again. And it’s not like she doesn’t see the glances those two exchange (if never a word beyond the order, never). So the next day – it’s a Thursday – she waits for Grantaire and the mystery boy to finish their why-aren’t-we-together-yet-thing (as she has dubbed it in her head) outside of the coffee shop, then, when mystery boy exits the shop, she steps in his way.

He is, thankfully, alone today, though Éponine wouldn’t have particularly cared if he wasn’t, that isn’t something that has ever stopped her before.

Right now he is looking at her, coffee cup in hand, frowning and trying to sidestep to walk past her but like hell is she letting that happen. She places a (perfectly manicured) finger on his chest, which immediately stops his movements and he looks like he’s about to start an angry speech on why you really shouldn’t do things like that, especially if you _don’t know the person you’re doing it to_ and if he could just please _continue walking_ when Éponine interrupts.

“Look, pretty boy, I don’t know whether you’re playing some sort of game or are just completely stupid – no offense – but this thing with Grantaire needs to _stop._ ”

“Excuse me?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.” She lowers her finger and gives him her sweetest smile, “You and Grantaire, who is, by the way, the barista who’s been making you coffee for _weeks_ now, need to stop just looking at each other and actually _talk._ ”

Mystery boy has started blushing a little and Éponine finds it awfully adorable. Mentally, she congratulates Grantaire on this catch (because holy hell, those cheekbones), but doesn’t let any of this show on her face. Instead, she rummages in her bag, then holds out a small piece of paper to him which he takes out of sheer perplexity.

“Grantaire’s number. _Text him._ ”

And with that, she leaves the boy standing in the middle of the sidewalk, looking thoroughly confused and with the hint of a smile starting to appear in the corners of his mouth.

__

_This is Enjolras._

_From the coffee shop._

_The brunette girl gave me your number._

_Éponine?_

_If that’s her name, yes._

_I’m Grantaire. By the way._

_So you’re called Enjolras, then._

_Do you mind if I continue dubbing you Apollo?_

_Nice to meet you. Sort of._

_Why Apollo?_

_Why, because you bear a startling resemblance._

_Do what you like._

_So, I was meaning to ask you—would you  
like to go for coffee someday?_

_Or something else._

_Apollo, are you_ asking me out _?_

_About time, goddamn it._

_____

Three days later, Grantaire ends his shift at three pm with the biggest smile on his face Éponine has ever seen. And she strongly suspects it has something to do with mystery boy – Enjolras. She mentally pats herself on the back, thinking back on how on the days before, Grantaire and Enjolras had finally managed to actually talk to each other, the ice broken by their text conversation. How both of them blushed each time their hands brushed.

At this moment of her contemplations, Grantaire walks by, now without his apron and with his tightest jeans on instead. Éponine winks at him, he winks back and, calling a goodbye over his shoulder, he leaves the coffee shop.

 

Outside, Enjolras is waiting for him. He smiles shyly at him and Grantaire will _never be over that smile Jesus fucking Christ._ It is, quite simply, the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

Grantaire smiles back and they begin walking, with no particular destination, just wandering about the streets of Paris. Snow has fallen the previous night and as soon as they’re a few streets away from the coffee shop, it starts falling again, in light flakes that land in their hair and melt there.

They walk in silence at first, content to be next to each other, and after a while Enjolras speaks up, with a half-smile on his face.

“I hate gingerbread latte, you know.”

Grantaire sputters a little, glancing at him, but he doesn’t get time to reply because Enjolras just continues talking,

“I just kept buying it because it had become a sort of…thing. And I liked that thing, so I thought to myself to keep it up any way I could, so…gingerbread latte it was.” He chuckles quietly, and then falls silent again.

Grantaire starts to smile as he begins to grasp Enjolras’ meaning. However, he does not reply, instead reaches out tentatively to take the other man’s hand, incredibly relieved when Enjolras immediately interlaces their fingers, glancing at him and smiling shyly. Enjolras’ hand is warm and dry, and Grantaire never wants to let go of it.

This is their first date and they spend the next three hours just walking through Paris’s streets. Grantaire learns about Enjolras’ occupation as a political science student at the local university (and Enjolras has to show him his passport to prove to him that he is, in fact, twenty-two and not seventeen), Enjolras’ love for black and white movies (“the Classics,” he says, the enthusiasm in his voice barely contained and Grantaire wants nothing more than to kiss him right this instant) and Enjolras’ hatred for anything conservative.

Enjolras learns about how Grantaire wishes he could afford to study art at a proper art college; he learns of Grantaire’s fondness for beanies and his cat, that is simply called Cat – “it’s homage to Audrey Hepburn,” Grantaire explains.

Then, suddenly, it’s getting dark and they’re standing on the sidewalk beneath a streetlight and Grantaire could puke at how cliché this is but he doesn’t really mind at all, not when Enjolras is holding his hand and they’re close, incredibly close and now Enjolras is leaning in and he can feel his breath against his lips holy shit his brain must be malfunctioning this can’t be true – and then Grantaire completely stops thinking as their lips brush. It’s only a brief second of contact before Enjolras pulls away with the most blinding smile on his lips, and Grantaire can’t help but reach up to pull him close again and kiss him properly this time.

The next day, Grantaire arrives at his shift a blooming two hours late which is a record even for him, but Éponine forgives him the second she sees him walking in, hand in hand with Enjolras, hair still messy and fading hickeys on his neck.

(That she forgives him doesn’t mean she doesn’t slip some extra spice in his drink later on, which causes Grantaire to spit the first mouthful straight onto his pants.)

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, I hope you like it! ♥


End file.
